The skin of his left arm
by Faithful Wheezy
Summary: Draco pulled the covers around himself tighter, his pillowcase feeling damp from his salty tears. A wet trail streaked across his pale face: down his nose, across his cheeks, down the sides of his lips. He wanted so dearly to give up. One shot


**The skin of his left arm  
**

by: Faithful Wheezy

-x-

Draco Malfoy shivered in his four poster bed. Although he was lying on top of a heated pan covered under a mountain of quilts, he was still cold.

He had been cold every since he could remember. Even when he was young, he felt a chill—a feeling so unique he himself could not answer his own question.

He remembered asking his father about it.

"_Father? I'm cold."_

"_Why in blazes are you cold, idiot boy? It's the middle of the summer?"_

"_I don't know, Father. I just feel empty."_

He remembered Lucius Malfoy chucking an old baby rattle in his general direction. _"We have no time for such foolish feelings as those!" _He roared. "_Take it like a Death Eater!"_

His mother was slightly more sympathetic.

"_Oh, darling, are you cold?"_

"_Yes, Mother."_

"_Well, come here then. You must be sick, Draco! It's the middle of the summer."_

"_Yes… Father told me." _He remembered indicating a large bump on his forehead to his mother, Narcissa Malfoy.

His mother than gave him a hug. _"Oh, sweetheart. Do you want to tell me what's wrong?"_

"_It feels like I'm hollow inside, Mother."_

Narcissa then looked slightly alarmed, and then automatically brought her right hand to her left forearm, as though burned. After a while, she blinked and smiled at Draco, who was looking curious.

"_I'm sorry, Draco dearest. It's my reflexes. The Healers say I have wicked ones…"_

"_Just like me?" _His eight-year-old self exclaimed excitedly.

"_Yes, toots. Like you."_

His mother was wonderful, no matter what that _idiot_ Potter said about her.

He turned over restlessly in his bed, allowing sleep to finally claim him, along with the tears he knew accompanied them.

_You want to give off an aura of superiority_

_You want to show 'your friends' that you are the boss…_

Every night, Draco cried himself to sleep. He always, always, _always_ tried to keep from doing it. It was a mudblood thing to do, he told himself often. Something only wimps like those Weasleys would do. No Malfoy every cried himself to sleep.

But he, Draco, was.

So was he really a Malfoy?

And his friends—Crabbe and Goyle and Pansy—were they really friends, or were they just weak-hearted fools who were like his father?

...They were friends, weren't they?

_Deep inside, you do not want your heart to be cold_

_Underneath you, you want to be warmed_

He hated his father for being who he was. He hated his father for raising him to be prejudiced. His life was ruined because of him and his pureblood-mania.

When he found out his father had become a Death Eater, he felt himself rip in two, along with his mother.

When his _mother_ became a Death Eater as well, to stay with his father more, he felt like he did not want to exist.

His parents had dragged him into a dark hole... and Draco did not like the dark.

_You are scared and daunted—_

_You show yourself as hard and strict_

Draco knew that he was a softhearted person ever since his parents turned to Voldemort. Ever since then, he had cried, not just at night, but during the course of the day as well.

He didn't want 'his friends' to know what kind of a person he was, for Draco knew what kind of people his friends were.

They were fake has-beens, who wanted to play the main character: the hero.

Once they found out that he did not even want to be a Death Eater, that he did _not_ in fact want to follow Voldemort, and just wanted to simply think 'screw everything, let it be', they would leave him alone.

And that would be either bad or good.

How Draco _hated _his life. He hated having to act out being someone he wasn't; he hated not being able to be the free person he wanted to be.

What was worse was knowing that death wasn't the answer. Stupid father.

_You can't live like this for long_

_You feel you will break_

Draco pulled the covers around him tighter, his pillowcase feeling damp from his salty tears. A wet trail streaked across his pale face; down his nose, across his cheeks, down the sides of his lips.

Draco wanted so dearly to give up. He didn't know how long he could hold on to the act he was playing.

He hated who he had become.

He hated what his father had made him become.

He hated Voldemort for having to be the stupid maniac he was.

Careless thoughts raced through Draco's head, and even though he knew he would get punished for them later—Voldemort was a Legilimens—he had to let them out in the only way he could.

He pushed his face into the pillow, no suicidal acts intended. He always wondered how the carefree, young, white-blond headed child had turned into this wreck.

_Just let your ice break, Draco._

_The fire will come and warm you_

He closed his eyes and tried to remember what it was like before Voldemort came to ruin his life by coming back in his Fourth Year.

"_Oh, Draco," _his mother gushed._ "These flowers are beautiful… did you get these for me?"_

The young five-year old would nod his head empathetically, grinning innocently.

"_Thank you, darling, I love them."_

"_I love _you_, Mummy!"_

In spite of himself, Draco grinned. Everybody thought he was a hard-hearted fool—and perhaps he was—but not to his mother. He loved his mother… but when she became a Death Eater, he never connected as well to her as he did before she made a decision that would change her whole life.

But as always, his father would ruin the picture again.

"_What is all of this—what is this sickly smell?"_

"_Flowers, Daddy! I got them for Mummy!"_

"_Get that trash out of here, Narcissa,"_ His father hissed. _"Get them out of here now! And Draco… upstairs. Get upstairs now."_

That was the day his father persuaded his mother to become a Death Eater. Instead of going upstairs obediently like he normally would have, Draco perched himself in the middle of the second staircase, where he could hear everything and still not be seen.

"_You must, Narcissa. If you do not join up with the Dark Lord, he will do things to you…" _His father breathed heavily. _"…and Draco."_

"_What… what must I do, Lucius?"_

"_Become a Death Eater, Narcissa. It is the only way you can stay safe from the Dark Lord. And eventually… Draco shall enter in the Dark Lord's services as well… very soon, in fact."_

"_I will not have my son be burdened with this!"_

"_This is an honorable position that should not be insulted by you, Narcissa!" _Draco's father roared out. _"You cannot call it that!"_

_But you have to approach the fireplace, Draco._

_Stop being somebody you're not_

Draco's nose stung as he felt the waterworks start up stronger, fresher. The mere memory of this particular encounter had scarred him deep—and even though he was only young at the time, something about that fight had embedded itself deeply into Draco's memory.

Draco sat up, giving up trying to get some sleep as a bad job. He stretched and yawned, all the while trying to get rid of the memory of the worst day of his young life.

He trudged down the cold stairs. _Damnit, why does everything here have to be so cold?_ Every step seemed to match the thudding of his heart.

He was so scared.

He was so _very_ scared.

He took a step… and another step. His heart seemed to thud out of his chest.

Finally, he found himself in the Slytherin Common Room. The _dark_, Slytherin Common Room. The fireplace glowed with warmth-less light; a witch's fire, they called it. It cast an eerie glow around the room.

The sight of this made Draco want to give up. He wanted to give up on everything—but he could not change. He couldn't change. If he changed, his mother was in trouble.

And he loved his mother.

_You do not belong to the dark side_

_Candles accompany you; you don't see them_

Shadows flickered around in the empty room. Draco felt his spirits go down lower and lower. Finally, feeling as though he could take no more, he crossed across the room to the fireplace and pointed his wand at it.

The fire became slightly warmer and more orange, but not dramatically so.

Draco sighed and sat down on the nearest emerald green armchair, knowing it was the best job he could do for now.

Shivering for the nth time that night, he rubbed his hands on his arms, feeling goose bumps and various scars.

Draco pulled his sleeve up and inspected the wounds, despite the temperature. The longer he stared at the long cuts and scratches, he knew he was leading a lost life. How lost he was—he didn't know.

_You are oblivious._

_You are in it too deep._

He pulled his sleeves back over his shivering arms, over his hands and fingers, and hugged himself. He had only been hugged by one other person (that bitch, Pansy Parkinson, didn't really count): his mother. He hugged himself tighter, and closed his eyes, trying to imagine that it was his mother, hugging him close to her heart, letting him hear the soothing sounds of her heartbeat.

"What am I doing here," he murmured to himself sadly. "…what have I done to myself?"

_Come out, Draco, before you are ahead—_

_You do not belong where you think you belong._

He knew he had to become a Death Eater.

Once again, he pulled up his sleeve—just the sleeve of his left arm, however—and looked at the pale area of his forearm. He caressed it softly, trying to imagine what it would look like with the Dark Mark disfiguring its pale color. He winced.

He did not want to become a Death Eater. He did not want this "honorable position"_—_his life was so ruined...

_Let yourself break, Draco._

_Just let your ice break._

The tears rolled freely down Draco's face again—however, this time, they were not tears of hesitation—they were tears of human feelings, of sadness, of despair—Draco was human, after all.

_You're alone in the world of ignorance_

_You hide behind walls of malice and spite_

He remembered what he had told Potter and Weasley the other day.

"_You're weak, you two. You wouldn't even kill a bloke no matter how good or bad they were. A half-blood and a blood traitor. Nothing I wouldn't expect."_

Now that he thought about it, Draco found that he, himself, was weak. Potter and Weasley weren't weak. He was.

He couldn't let them know that, of course.

That would cost him an arm and a leg.

_You say you can do all these things;_

_You cannot_

Could he kill a person no matter how good or bad they were?

Closing his eyes, he imagined it. He tried to think of doing it—he knew he'd have to do it before long… instinctively, he brought his right hand to his left arm the way his mother did often when he was eight.

He couldn't do it.

Draco shivered.

_Yes, you know you want to be warmed_

_You want to be relieved from this cold_

The fire was crackling invitingly. Somehow, it had grown warmer and brighter than a few minutes ago.

Unable to simply stare at it, Draco crawled off of the armchair and onto the floor in front of the fireplace. The light reflected in his icy, gray eyes.

They reminded him of the candles on his birthday cake.

The cake he made himself.

It was his tenth birthday—his last birthday before he would go to Hogwarts the next year. His father and mother were both out… they had forgotten what day it was.

Even his mother.

So, in an attempt to make himself feel better, Draco had made himself a cake, complete with lit candles. He did not remember how he did it; but he did remember that it had not helped any.

When his parents arrived that night, he was slumped on the kitchen floor, crying, the cake untouched.

_Life is not easy, not all rainbows and butterflies_

_There are villains in disguise_

His father had shook his head, but wisely kept out of it, knowing that it was his son's birthday. He had walked upstairs, into his and Narcissa's room.

Narcissa rushed over to Draco, hugging him tightly, glancing at the cake he had made himself… for himself. She cried, her tears mingling with her son's.

She had later cut a slice for him to eat.

Draco remembered that later, he had become sick from the confection.

_Let yourself break._

_Just let your ice break, Draco._

He remembered, that the next day, he had offered his father a slice of cake.

This was the one, rare time where his father was actually proud of him.

"_What's this?"_

"_A cake… I made it myself, Father."_

"_Oh, really? Narcissa, is this true?"_

Narcissa nodded, smiling proudly.

To Draco's surprise, so did his father. _"Thank you, Son."_

_You're lost underground,_

_There is no light, happiness, sound—_

He wished that his father was like that all the time. He suspected that, simply because it was his birthday, his father simply accepted that, and decided to lie low for the time being.

The rest of the time, his parents were both gone often, coming back tired, as though they were tirelessly searching for something they couldn't quite find.

He wanted to help them.

But now, Draco realized, he didn't.

_There is only the echo of unhappiness_

_It echoes from your heart._

The fire blazed, but still, Draco felt empty. He didn't know why, exactly.

He was so confused… he didn't know why he was so unhappy, exactly. He knew he was miserable because of his life… but was that the real reason?

_You want to come back to us_

_You want to go home_

He wanted to live the carefree years he used to live, back when he was around five, when his father wasn't as hard on him as he was now, and his mother wasn't a Death Eater yet.

He wanted his heart to rest; he wanted to live like a normal person.

He felt like he had been everywhere in the world _but_ home. And it was an unpleasant feeling.

He wanted to go home.

_But you do not know how if you've never had one_

_Yes, you are alone._

The fire crackled merrily, at complete odds to Draco's feelings.

What was home? _Where_ was home? What was home like?

The Malfoy Manor, Hogwarts—neither had served as good homes for him so far. So… how could he return home?

It was pitiful. He didn't know what home was. Imagine that.

_You can be saved if you just let yourself break._

_Let your ice break, let the water run free._

He stood up, and sighed. He knew he would have to accept life as it was for now.

But it was so _bloody hard_! His mother was strong… she cried only occasionally. Why, _why_ couldn't he be as strong as her?

He wanted to let go of this rope of burden and just fall. He wanted to fall, and not care anymore. He wanted to give up so much. But it wasn't that easy.

_Just break._

-x-

Author's Note: The italicized words put together one, larger poem that originally was a separate piece of work. Please review!


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